[Canton] Jack’s Bistro: A Collision, Juxtaposition, Combination..A Symphony of a Cacophony

Since living in Baltimore (post-college), with the exception of a brief 6-month stint in Fells Point, I have always been a West-Syder. By “West Side”, I of course mean The Peninsula: Federal Hill/Sobo, for all five and a half years. Usually, within the first year of living in this city, one becomes keenly aware of its intense provinciality and insularity…read: I have spent more nights in Manhattan, hell, even Brooklyn (NY, not the ‘other’ peninsula) bars than Canton bars since living here.

Despite not having spent much time there, I have always been fascinated with Canton. The square has some terrific sports bars and pubs, and as one ventures away from the square, character-laden dives and gems like McHaffey’s abound. Canton, like Locust Point, also embodies Baltimore’s ‘old and new’. Tide Point, The Can Company, Camden Yards, a host of other adaptive re-uses of relics from an industrial age that are fused with the biotech/service age and rebirth of urban life – all of these places represent the complexity (and potential) of Baltimore City’s lifestyle. Also representative of this fusion is a restaurant and bar in the middle of a residential block of Canton – Jack’s Bistro.

The Crowd:

My first trip to Chicago entailed a weekend-long stumble from bar to bar across Wrigleyville with one of my best friends who bartended at The Sports Corner, a Chicago institution that nearly rivals Wrigley itself (stay with me). It was on this trip that I first saw the word, “Industry” followed by a “-75%” on a bill at a bar. Because my friend was embedded in the red-eyed, bloated-morning-face, tightly-knit industry of bartending in a post-college neighborhood, we drank for next to nothing, and my fascination with “The Industry” was born. This fascination goes beyond fun rental budgeting (read: cheap bar tabs). The fascination is more with the camaraderie and the ‘club’. I want to drink where bartenders go to drink. I want to eat where chefs go to eat. The latter is Jack’s slogan.

Depending on the time of night (or night itself), the crowd at Jack’s varies. On a Thursday night at 10pm, the crowd transitions from Foodies and Cantonites to ‘Industry’. While sitting at the bar, I inadvertedly eavesdropped on conversations involving BSSC kickball games to how some sous-chef effed up a whole batch of béchamel. (A quick side note: if you consider yourself even an amateur foodie, try hanging out with some chefs and/or culinary students. I find it fascinating on the whole, but I also equate it to amateur golfers hanging out with a PGA tour professional: you can realize real quickly that despite the fact you like gorging yourself with farm-to-table culinary creations, you probably are not equipped or willing to construct said creations for a living).

The crowd was eclectic but not overbearing, interesting but not intimidating, intellectual but not quite brilliant. In other words, as middle-of-the-road as Baltimore.

Crowd: B

Atmosphere:

The atmosphere of Jack's is wholly representative of the heartwarming mix of old and new. For instance, if sitting at the bar and looking up, one will see exposed coaxial cable lines and power cords feeding the tube tvs and a fine pine bar. This sight is seemingly intentionally juxtaposed with nouveau local original art and killer reviews from Baltimore Mag and The Sun substantiating the KILLER food that is produced in their rowhouse kitchen (more on that later).

As with many converted rowhome establishments, Jack's chose to keep the imitation linoleum ceiling, which I personally find visually appealing and authentic. However, in the spirit of fusing the old and the new, this ceiling is ornamented with brushed steel light fixtures set to the dim setting. The exposed brick invigorates the warmth that could and should be present in so many converted rowhome bars. The back dining room has the definitive vibe of a cozy restaurant.

Overall, Jack's atmosphere is somewhere between Charleston and BAR in Fells Point. The way in which it falls on this spectrum, however, is what makes the magic. The decor is tastefully done, but enough of 'the old' is kept to give the restaurant an authentic vibe.


Atmosphere: B+

The Drinks:

If there is one thing this barcrawler-turned-foodie (well, still part-time barcrawler) likes, its creative cocktails. I have gone as far tobacco-infused honey in lieu of simple syrup, and I fully plan to continue outward toward the obscure. So much of the joy of food comes from unabated creativity, and we are fortunate to live in an age bathed in, and a country founded on, freedom.

There is a beautiful smattering of cocktails for all palettes and tastes. The Jack's Gin is fantastic, combining Hendrick's with housemade basil-infused syrup, served over rocks. Baltimore Liquid's predilections for tequila and heat also would lead to a solid endorsement of Jalapeno Margarita-tini, which uses house-infused jalapeno tequila. As one reads down the menu, the drinks continue to get more adventurous, including a buttered-popcorn martini, Jack's Butter-Tea (green tea vodka and chai tea). After some gin, I moved on to several Belgian beers I had not previously heard of (and since cannot remember).

The beer list includes a variety of obscure pilsners, stouts, trappists, porters, tripels, lambics, and beyond. They offer flights of beer for those feeling adventurous (three (3) six-ounce pours for $8). Further, almost as if to score points with Baltimore Liquid, Bud, Bud Light, Miller Lite, and Coors Light are where they belong: on THE BOTTOM of the menu.

As one reads down the menu, the wine list is organized in ascending order of body, a plus for those who know what they like, but don't necessarily have a particular brand loyalty (or enough brain cells left from the last oenophiliac binge). There are solid reds and whites from Napa, Russian River, Australia, South Africa and France. Price points range from $22/bottle to $150/bottle for Napa's coveted Axios Cabernet Sauvignon.

Drinks: A+

Service:

At first blush it seemed a little standoffish, but after some (as referred to in "The Switch" episode of Seinfeld) playful humor, the bartender seemed to lighten up and discuss the prolific food & drink on the menu. The cassoulet jumped out at me, and the bartender affirmed my gastronomic intuition (more on the dish later). All the drinks, including the specialty cocktails, were mixed and served promptly, and a waning glass did not go unnoticed. The food was brought out on a timely basis, and the food runner (who was also a server) placed them in front of my salivating cakehole with a smile. Teamwork amongst the staff goes a long way in providing not only good service, but also in enhancing atmosphere.

Put simply, the 'Baltimore Attitude' came through to a limited extent, but the important components were there. The help didn't go out of their way to make conversation (unless you are by yourself, this is usually a good thing), but was attentive.

Service: B+

Food:

I saved the best for last. The shoestring poutine (for those of you who don't parle francais or mange francais - thin gravy cheese fries), had a decadent duck demi glace and foie gras sauce that prompted me to inhale like Bill Clinton on a jammer (or Monica on his jammer). My dining mate followed this with the crabcake, which was broiled well, had a hearty consistency and served with a parsnip puree that was as good for the soul as mashed potatoes made with heavy cream. The puree was smooth but hearty, and complimented the crabcake beautifully.

Now on to my cassoulet. I had never had this dish before, but was intrigued and while at Jacks, wanted to take a turn into Sous-videville (more on that below). The cassoulet at Jack's contains a sous vide duck breast, white beans, italian sausage, veggies, and tomato ($18.50: hoo-rah.)

Sous vide (literally: vacuum) is essentially a French process of cooking that chefs use to cook meat "low n' slow" to retain the meats flavor and maintain a heavenly tender consistency. The meat is placed into a plastic bag, vacuum-sealed, then immersed in water that is well-below boiling temperature.

The food is well conceived, executed, and plated/presented. Combined with the quick service and efficient kitchen, the overall food experience surpassed expectations. After countless recommendations from friends, I must say, my expectations were high.

Food: A

Take Home:

In short, if you consider yourself a foodie, you need to check out Jack's...forget foodies, if you like a wide-array of flavors and textures between adult beverages (witness the prolific beer/wine/cocktail list) and clever dishes that you won't find anywhere else in Bmore (Jack's claims to be the only Baltimore restaurant that utilizes sous vide cooking), get over there asap.

Critics may knock the atmosphere for being disjointed, but, as I've lamented ad nauseum in this review: It's Baltimore. What isn't disjointed?

Take Home: A-

[Bolton Hill] The Mount Royal Tavern: Where the Whole Engulfs the Sum of the Parts

It smells of stale beer and under-appreciated wood floors. It has an unashamed, throbbing red neon sign to announce its presence. Its name is not clever, or pretentious. It doesn’t have a Facebook page. It doesn’t have a web site. Yet it remains as much of an institution in Charm City as blue crabs, duckpin bowling, Natty Boh, and an inferiority complex. If one is to have a blog that makes an attempt to review Baltimore City bars, it is of paramount necessity that he or she give two crudded-up, ran-through-the-ringer cents on the Mount Royal Tavern.

Crowd:
We are all drinkers. Whether it is to celebrate, to mourn, to unwind, or to catch up, we all find ourselves in bars to rent some fun and forget about tomorrow, if even for a few moments. MRT embraces, in the truest sense of the word, the diversity of Baltimore. I do not mean this in an ACLU connotation, where the bar is sensitive to ethnic differences. It could care less about differences. This statement is to mean that no matter if you are a law student at UB, a heroin addict, the next Picasso trying to make it at MICA, or a hack writer living in South Baltimore, you have clearly walked into the MRT for some legal medicine, and that makes you okay in the MRT’s book. Black, white, brown, yellow, orange, or purple (for you Raven fans) – we are all united in our ‘quest to forget’ once we pass through the door on Mount Royal Ave. Looking around, one will notice shoulder-to-hand tatted-up daughters talk to theirs dads about the mysteries of life over Natty Bohs, and MICA guys enlighten their IBM-retired parents on the beauty of the Ween song that is playing and the merits of studying Dali.

There is no pretension here, and if you plan on showing any, do yourself a favor and do not show up. The crowd is not always pretty, and almost never flashy. The crowd will let you mind your own business, as long as you do not stick your nose in someone else’s. In the same visit, if you are so inclined, you will find yourself having a great conversation with a patron who may (or may not) be from an entirely different walk of life than your own.

Crowd: A

Atmosphere:
The intricate woodwork of the floors, steps, railings, and mirror frames has a thousand dings in it, and most of the place is in desperate need of soap, water, in some cases, polyurethane, and general TLC. At the MRT, however, the lion’s share of the TLC is administered to the pastime of drinking...like anything in life, with limited resources, if one garden is given ample attention, an adjacent garden overgrows to the point of requiring a backhoe.

Clearly the crown jewel of the MRT’s atmosphere is the "American fresco" ceiling. It is Baltimore nightlife’s version of the Sistine Chapel. The walls behind the bar are wallpapered with cheesy, but clever-to-a-person-getting-drunk bumper stickers...and lots of them, such as “if you're drinking to forget, please pay in advance". The beer company schwag from the 70’s lets you know that a Miller Lite rep didn’t just visit the place a few weeks back, or if he did, he likely ran out the way he came after being pelted with Natty Boh empties. Behind the bar, there is also 3-foot swordfish, an English mount of a buck rack (with a fake raven perched on it), a fake rhino mount (with a fake hand on it), and about a thousand other sundries that one would not notice unless he or she looked. Even if you do not notice any of the minutia, it will permeate your experience through visual osmosis, and, as the title states, it will make the whole far greater than the sum of the parts.

As dark and dingy of a bar as it can be, the MRT somehow manages to get some natural light in through the massive front bay window to remind you of the world from which you are so insulated once inside. If the weather is nice, you can make your way through the main bar room to exit the rear for a back concrete patio. This has seating for about forty people, depending on the bar’s particular level of respect for the fire marshal on any given day.

MRT spent some dough a few years back to ensure that everyone in the place could hear the badass music belting out of their Pitchfork Media-eat-your-heart-out jukebox, which, in Baltimore, is almost as legendary as the bar in which it resides. What was once the epitome of music snobbery has slightly tapered to include accessible but incredible music and frankly, pumps out more killer tunes than Brighton, UK. Walking in, one could hear anything from Nirvana Unplugged to Tom Petty’s Wildflowers to The Doves’ Last Broadcast. The hits keep on coming at the MRT, and this auditory wallpaper is an integral part of the cavernous depth of the atmosphere.

Atmosphere: A

The Drinks: Anyone who catches themselves ordering a ginger-lime infused syrup cucumber mojito at MRT should (and likely could) be thrown out of the place before you finish speaking. The bartenders can and will make a cocktail, but do not expect a perfectly balanced top-shelf gin and gourmet tonic. Likely, you will get Beefeater-in-a-Bombay bottle with a splash of beverage-gun tonic….and the bartender will probably give you some attitude about making it, as he likely has 20-30 other patrons clamoring for more ice-cold Natty Boh cans.

Speaking of ice-cold Natty Boh cans, The MRT’s beers are so cold, I can only assume that the coolers are set to some sub-arctic temperature.

Nothing fancy here, but in my opinion, the place could use a signature cocktail. Many may think this violates it’s ‘dive’ status, but I have been to many-a-dive that have something unique (see my review of Idle Hour). MRT does not, but it does not suffer tremendously.

Drinks: B-

The Service:

The bartenders all have an attitude -- not a misplaced Mick O'Sheas attitude, but one that is earned. The look that goes with the question, “what do you need brother [babe]?” says with a frustrated sarcasm, “hurry the f*ck up a**hole [wench], I’ve got about thirty thirsties thumpin’ on my bar for a drink”.

Because of the no-BS attitude, you can generally get a drink pretty quickly. Please, for the love of God, however, be ready with your order when the bartender calls on you. These folks earn their tips, so hook them up if you are able. If you sit, whether by yourself or with friends, and adhere to the rules we all learned in kindergarten, the help will likely make some small talk if they have a free minute. The help exudes the warmest components of Baltimore’s charm, while at the same time, displaying the edge that makes that charm unique.

Service: B+

The MRT does not make the attempt to serve mediocre bar food, a mistake made by so many Baltimore establishments. I have had way too many pedestrian burgers, wings, and friggin’ chicken Caesar wraps (okay I don’t order those, but I’ve seen them on too many menus) while sitting a bar and wanting something to eat.

Instead of ‘shooting for the middle’, MRT makes no feeble attempt at ‘standard bar fare’. By way of a menu that hangs behind the bar and was likely printed in 1979, MRT says to its patrons “if you are really hungry from drinking so much here, we can make a pizza”. They offer pepperoni pizza and cheese pizza, and although it’s frozen and doesn’t come with broccoli and spinach, it still somehow exceeds the patron’s expectations.

The food at MRT reminds me of the food at McSorely’s, New York City’s oldest operating bar, and a mainstay in my Top 10 Worldwide Bars. If you are hungry at McSorely’s (which takes the same attitude towards imbibing as MRT), you can order a sleeve of saltines, a shot glass of mustard, and some sliced white onions. THAT’S IT! The food is not the focal point of the MRT (nor McSorely’s). What is admirable about the bar is THAT IT HAS A FOCAL POINT!! By trying to be all things to all people at all times, so many of Charm City’s watering holes miss the mark. MRT does not make this mistake, and here’s to hoping they continue to avoid it.

Food: B-

Take Home:

If one is looking to impress his or her suburbanite visitors with a flashy place that serves infused specialty cocktails with a view of the harbor, MRT is not the place. If, however, you are looking to catch up with some old (or new) friends over some ICE cold brews and great music, or if you are looking to drown a few sorrows or simply reflect on the recession, there are few better places than the MRT.

You get trapped in the bar...but trapped in a good way. The MRT possesses the je-ne-sais-quoi of a bar that allows us to forget entirely about the world that exists on the other side of the bar’s doorway. Go there with good friends, or by yourself to celebrate life or forget about it.

Take Home: A-

Welcome to Baltimore Liquid!

Now that two reviews have been posted on this site, I suppose it would be useful to clue my reader (I am not yet assuming anyone is reading this but me…hopefully, soon I can say, ‘readers’) in to my methodology and format for judging and writing about the most interesting watering holes in Charm City.

First off, I should describe the purpose of this blog. Far too often, Baltimore’s bar scene (particularly with respect to bar food) can most aptly be described as “close, but no cigar”. A friend of mine wanted to replace “Believe” with “Almost” as the city’s slogan. This comment will likely offend some Baltimoreans who instinctively have a massive inferiority complex concerning comparisons to other cities.

As a Baltimorean of five years, I can safely say that Baltimore is a “B” city. That stated, there are many “B” and “C” cities that have awesome bar scenes and ever-improving restaurant scenes. For this to occur, it is crucial that, as consumers, WE DO NOT SETTLE!!! There are plenty of people who live in this city that have traveled the world, and have tasted authentic food and drink. Many of us know what ‘it’ is, yet many do not believe they can get ‘it’ here. The ensuing apathy is crippling to a supposed evolving cultural scene.

In many cases, local food critics are afraid to tear a place in half if their food, atmosphere, service, and drinks are not excellent. I am not a journalist, and I do not have superiors, so I will not have any compunction about writing a scathing review of a place because the owners demonstrate the above-described attitude of indifference. The result will hopefully manifest itself in better places to eat and drink.

I will try to visit new places soon (but not too soon) after they open. However, since the mission of Baltimore Liquid is to describe and rate the most interesting places here in Baltimore, these will not always be new. In some instances, I will review a place that has been in existence for years. Whenever possible, I will go with 1-2 friends and sit at the bar to eat and drink.

I will organize the reviews usually with a simple introduction, followed by my take on the crowd, the atmosphere, the drinks, the service, the food, and a take home message. Each will be assigned a grade.

I hope you enjoy-

[Federal Hill] Idle Hour: Sometimes You Eat the Bar, and Sometimes, Well....

“I only mention it 'cause some- times there's a man--I won't say a hero, 'cause what's a hero?--but sometimes there's a man…and I'm talkin' about The Dude here-- sometimes there's a man who, well, he's the man… for his time n’ place. He fits right in there--and that's the Dude, in Los Angeles.”
-The Big Lebowski

Just as The Dude is the man for his time and place, sometimes there’s bar…well, it sets the bar. It is exactly what one is looking for. Whether one is wearing shorts and flip flops or a tuxedo, whether with his idiot college friends or the love of his life, this bar simply feels right.

Any of us who have had an epiphany while bellied-up to a dark bar while hanging out with a friend know this feeling of “right”. In most cases, individuals, and certainly a hack like me, cannot articulate what makes it so extraordinary while at the same time, comforting. The je-ne-sais-quoi of a bar, while elusive to describe, permeates the entire experience of imbibing at that establishment.

In South Baltimore, there is an establishment that possesses this indescribable characteristic. For some reason, instead of just talking about Jacko’s death, conversations morph into the societal and anthropological implications of it. One Resurrection or Hendricks or malbec turns into five, and sunlight turns into moonlight (or in most cases, police-siren light of Fort Ave.). I am of course talking about Idle Hour.

The Crowd: Simply said, the crowd is diverse and unassuming. Many nights (or days), one will see everyone from a locust point wharf rat drinking an MGD to a young attorney and his wife sipping high-end spirits. There is no dominant socioeconomic or age demographic.

Occasionally, the uncomfortably-inebriated-on-15-Miller-Lite-bottle-and-Jager-shot-post-college dufus will stroll in like he owns the place and annoy everyone else in the bar. In most cases when this happens, the drunk a-hole is made to feel like a drunk a-hole. However, on a weekend night, the place has is so effervescent with activity that nobody even notices the slop...hard to imagine given that the place is less than 500 square feet.

Regular patrons of Idle-Hour share a common understanding that the bar is the focal point, not a 23 year-old hottie doing belly shots, or glory days Penn State grads doing shots of well-marketed, poor quality tequila (not to disparage the former of the two foci). You go to Idle Hour to drink, enjoy company, and, as Max Keatty would say, philosophize.

Crowd: A-

Atmosphere: The phrase, “I like what you’ve done with the place” comes to mind. When it comes to real estate, my undoubted preference is to put one’s own spin and individuality on a piece of history. Idle Hour does this by molding the atmosphere of a mid-town Manhattan dive out of a converted Baltimore rowhome.

The formstone is still on the outside of the place, yet the spotlighted, painted vertical-lettered sign gleams like the beacon in the Coma episode of the Sopranos. One can see it from Light St. when heading east on Fort Ave., rising like Phoenix.
When one walks in, eight-ish times out of ten, he or she will get, at a minimum, a nod from a bartender and a quick size-up from the patrons. He or she will immediately notice hi-ball glasses with candles illuminating every other position at the bar. The liquor stock is well lit under a bar-length mirror, and dead soldiers of Chartreuse (Idle Hour is one of the top retailers, sometimes the top retailer in the USA of the French spirit) line a shelf running the length of the bar, with white Christmas lights draped beneath it. Maybe its just the sap in me, or the kid who thought the bar where Phoebe Cates worked in Gremlins looked cool, but to me, there is something undeniably warm about a bar with Christmas lights. They seem to say, “we know you need to see your way around in here, but that’s about all you need to see”.

The patron will then notice independent artwork littering the walls. As the work changes regularly, sometimes it will appeal to certain eyes, sometimes it will not. The point is, Idle Hour (similar to the Supercompueter "Hal" in 2001: A Space Odyssey, Idle Hour has a persona all its own…let’s call her “Ida”) doesn’t care if you like it or not. It’s just there. I will never forget one night when I went in to Idle Hour and the only ‘artwork’ on the walls was two beautifully scripted, 4x5-foot scathing reviews of, you guessed it, Idle Hour. Ida also has a sarcastic, self-deprecating sense of humor, crucial in today’s world of sophisticated comedy.

Now on to the music: I cannot count the number of times when I have interrupted a friend/drinking partner’s story with the passionate, amazed inquiry to the bartender, “Who the f*$@ is this!??” The music in Idle Hour is great. Not because it is always what I want to listen to, but because it is always interesting and individual. If you desire to hear Kid Rock’s abomination of two great rock songs, or the newest Kanye remix, do not waste your steps, breath, or hope walking into Idle Hour. On Thursdays Idle Hour typically has a DJ, and in most cases, he or she is spinning some awesome stuff. In one instance, there was a five song block of remixes of The Cars. Need I say more?

Atmosphere: A

The Drinks: Idle Hour has approximately five beers on draught, usually changing regularly (with the exception of the Nectar of N. Charles St, sometimes known as Resurrection Ale – that is always available). They have a decent wine selection, and an impeccable and adventurous liquor selection, including The Nectar of Scotland (sometimes known as Hendricks gin), and the Nectar of Kentucky (sometimes known as Basil Hayden’s bourbon). What they do not have, however, is imaginative herbed cocktails with a vivid description of ingredients and a high price tag.

If there is a signature drink at Idle Hour, it is most certainly Chartreuse, a vile concoction of some deranged French monks who think that the extraction and distillation of essences of 130+ herbs will result in a delightful spirit. If one is feeling particularly self-sadistic, he or she can snort back a few shots of Chartreuse, and suddenly Resurrections and Dogfish Heads taste like Coors Light, and the individual can immediately enter into “let me tell you how things really are” mode.

I am not sure if this is still available at Idle Hour, but I went in a few years ago and tried a “White Trash Mimosa” (brainchild of Ida), which consisted of Miller High Life (as it is the “Champagne of Beers”), and Tang. This drink is totally awesome in concept, and surprisingly, Xanthan Gummedly delicious. If Idle Hour does not still serve these, hopefully the HNIC’s will read this and act accordingly.

Drinks: A-

Service: After approximately two visits in a row where I ordered Henricks and soda with a cucumber, the help generally remembered my drink of choice and would begin mixing with a quick confirmation from me. With a bar of this size and limited regular patronage, I would expect this level of service. The staff at Idle Hour, however, in the case that I am feeling like a tasty bourbon, exceeds my expectations in remembering my second choice of drink as well! Bars make most of their money from regulars, and by treating people like, well, people, Idle Hour ensures that their “regulars” stay that way.

My grandmother worked as a cocktail waitress in the fifties. My mom gave me her bartender’s guide, which along with some killer cocktail recipes, also lists guidelines for bartenders (which I will publish on this blog). Most of Idle Hour’s bartenders adhere to a number of these guidelines (a rarity in today’s drinking establishments), which make a drinking experience all the more pleasurable:

-Make sure to be aware of your patron’s conversations, but do not appear to eavesdrop, and certainly do not posit opinions unless asked for them
-Shine your glasses before serving a cocktail
-If a patron’s drink gets below 1/8 full, ask if he or she would like another
-Acknowledge any new patron at the bar, even if you are busy, make sure the patron feels noticed.

In some cases, the staff can come off as dismissive (and in some cases, intoxicated). I have experienced this a few times, and it has soured otherwise great experiences. The majority of the time, however, if you as a patron are reasonable, the staff will be just the same.

Service: B+

Food: With no kitchen, the closest Idle Hour comes to a restaurant is by way of a cucumber in your Hendricks. They will allow a pizza to be ordered from nearby Mikie’s, which has awful pizza. I will say, however, that I have witnessed many a discriminating palette knock back a half of a Mikie’s pizza after a few at Idle Hour.

Food: n/a

Take Home: Idle Hour is a bar, plain and simple, with a vintage Baltimore attitude, and a Mount Vernon sense of style. You do not go here to watch football or MMA, to drink Miller Lites with your Sobo Sports team, or to drink Red-Headed Slut shots. You go here to drink your poision, and voice your passion. This bar has the “intangible desirable” for which all bars strive, and is totally original. It fits right in without an iota of effort.

Take Home: A (this grade will not often be given to bars on Baltimore Liquid)

[Federal Hill] The Hill: Where the Food and Drink Are About As Creative As The Name

I am going to begin this review with a disclaimer: I am not a journalist. The perspective I will provide is one of a patron. As a patron, I can submit that I am able to identify components of a good neighborhood pub, and while The Hill has the fundamental building blocks of a good pub, it falls desperately short on its execution.

Crowd: Chef Antoine Petteway, who jumped ship from the neighboring Metropolitan, is a favorite amongst locals in Federal Hill - Proper. The crowd seemed very similar to that of Metropolitan, likely seeking the same warm atmosphere, imaginative dishes, and eclectic beverages common to the coffee shop and gastro pub. It ranged from mid-20/30 somethings having a few beers and laughs to empty-nesters sharing a bottle of wine.

The crowd had a positive vibe, and was certainly comforting to working professionals of any age group indigenous to Federal Hill/Sobo. If you are seeking company of individuals just off a shift at the docks, you are not likely to find them here...well, not yet, anyway.

Crowd: B+

Atmosphere: A few of us walked in to The Hill on a beautiful Friday evening, with sunshine pouring through the front windows. I realized that since both sides of Cross St. traverse east/west, there are very few bars in Federal Hill that have a front that faces west. Depending on the time of day you decide to check it out, you will notice an immediate distinction from other bars in the neighborhood, which is invaluable to a new establishment attempting to compete in a bar-rich neighborhood: loads of happy-hour natural light. One of the most reknowned real estate developers in South Florida once said that light truly defines and enhances a space, no matter what the use. This is clearly evident in this manifestation.

The layout of The Hill is clever and unique amongst the neighborhood’s many watering holes. A clouded-glass divider separates the bar area from the dining area. The bar itself is rectangular, bisected by a partial brick wall, which allows bartenders to access to all sides of the bar, and allows patrons too see all sides of it.

As we sat down, we noticed an annoyance: the bar stools were far too short for the bar. This may seem inconsequential, but if you have ever tried to sit and enjoy an adult beverage while feeling like a child at the adults’ table, then you can appreciate its many consequences on your enjoyment of one or multiple beverages. Unfortunately, this was a harbinger of what was to come with a series of annoyances that led to a poor dining and all-to-mediocre drinking experience.

Another quick point on atmosphere: there is a sign behind the bar that reads: “What happens in The Hill, stays in The Hill”. Simply said, if you are going to blatantly rip off a slogan, rip it off from somewhere other than a moderately-clever national ad spot for Las Vegas that ran in the early 90’s. I think the movie “Under Siege” was at the top of the box office when that phrase was considered the least bit clever…and it was marketing a City of Sins, not a new neighborhood pub in City of supposed Charms.

Atmosphere: C

Drinks: The Hill does not claim to be a micro-brewery. I did not walk in expecting an array of beers that rivaled Max’s, nor did I expect arrogant bartenders who shunned you for not knowing the complexities of a cranberry lambic. When I saw an array of microbrews from Clipper City on draught, I have to say I was excited. When I asked the barman to confirm if the Marz-Hon was Clipper City’s lager and got a blank stare, I was not excited. The wine list is decent for a Federal Hill bar, and we had a bottle of Sauvingnon Blanc.

The cocktail list does not have a list of the ingredients of each “specialty” cocktail. Let us take a page from Woodberry Kitchen here, if you are proud of the ingredients you are using in your cocktails, inform your patrons of those ingredients. Instead of ingredients next to the drink, we get a sappy description in quotes. A feeble attempt at a humorous, non-specific description is what we get at Applebee’s. Further, the cocktails seemed unimaginative and overpriced, but I cannot comment on execution as we did not sample them.

Drinks: C+

Service: As stated above, the atmosphere had loads of potential. In my opinion, however, atmosphere is largely shaped by the service. The service at The Hill can best be described as misguidedly arrogant and inattentive. When my girlfriend asked the bartender what she would recommend, the response was “everything is good”, and was terribly helpless in helping us choose an entrée.

I am mildly annoyed when a server recommends the most expensive dish on the menu, but I am intensely annoyed when a server makes no recommendation. At this point, we had gone from Applebee’s to McDonalds, where the help is given specific instruction to be unspecific in recommendations. As far as I am concerned, anyone serving me food should have tasted every single option available to me, especially with a price point at that of The Hill.

For the remainder of the night, drinks went dry without a glance (we were sitting at the bar, mere feet away from additional liquid fun), orders were reluctantly taken and filled, and employees displayed a general sense of apathy.

Service: C-

Food: Once again, I did not walk into this establishment with high expectations. The menu is divided in a “land, air, sea” concept, and most of the dishes appeared fun, while not terribly adverturous. When we received our jambalaya, sword fish, and veggie focaccia, however, our modest expectations were impossibly not met.

First things first: the swordfish was raw. I simply cannot comprehend how a kitchen in a new restaurant could make the mistake of putting undercooked seafood out for service. When sent back and re-fired, the dish was tough and clearly not fresh (unless out of the harbor). Paired with some string beans, this is clearly a dish I could recreate after a quick stop at the Cross Street Market.

On to the next disappointment: the jambalaya. My expectation from a "southern chef" is a bold, spicy, rich dish with an array of flavors. My reality was overcooked chicken and frozen shrimp in a sauce base that visually and in terms of taste, resembled Chef Boyardee. Served over bland white rice, the jambalaya was under-seasoned and far from the appropriate temperature. This dish is to comfort food as electric chair is to comfort furniture. Further, I am not one for Cheesecake Factory-sized portions, but at $17, this dish simply did not satiate.

The only saving grace was the marinated-portabella focaccia sandwich. While it does not seem overly difficult to marinate some portabellas and throw them between a sliced piece of focaccia, I was not making any assumptions at this point.

Food: D

Take Home: After dinner, a few other friends met us at The Hill, and we promptly left in search of a watering hole with some character. After spending countless months rehabbing a space and opening a signature restaurant, The Hill disappointingly missed the mark. Very modest expectations were not met, and in a neighborhood (and city) full of bars and restaurants, this is simply inexcusable.

Despite mine and my foodie companions’ negative experience, I am a believer in second chances, and I will go back to The Hill at some point. The sour taste I was left with, however, will undoubtedly be difficult to sweeten.

Take Home: D+